


Paperboy

by mibasiamille



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: 80's AU, F/M, paperboy au, young ian the matchmaker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:14:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mibasiamille/pseuds/mibasiamille
Summary: Paperboy Ian Murray Jr. attempts to get his uncle to go out with one of his customers: a divorced pediatrician with a fondness for whiskey.





	1. one

Ian Murray was always on time. He had the same routine every single morning since he was ten:

> **4:45 AM** : Hit snooze.
> 
> **4:47 AM** : Hit snooze again.
> 
> **4:50 AM** : Turn the alarm off, due to yells of frustration from his mother in the other room.
> 
> **5:00 AM** : Shower, quickly.
> 
> **5:15 AM** : Change, brush teeth, and hope to God that he didn’t put his shirt on inside out.
> 
> **5:20 AM** : Head down the stairs, helmet in hand. Grabs a banana from the basket of fruit on the table.
> 
> **5:25 AM** : Run into his Uncle Jamie in the study, of whom informs his nephew that his shirt is, indeed, inside out. Again.
> 
> **5:26 AM** : Turning his shirt the right way, he thanks his uncle and heads for his bike.

_Everything after this is subject to change._

> **Between 5:30 AM and 5:45 AM** : Ian Murray turns the corner from his home to the shop where the newspapers are printed. Geordie, the printer, hands him the bag of twine-tied papers.
> 
> _“Don’t do nothin’ stupid, mind,” He tells the young lad, every single day. “These papers here be expensive.”_
> 
> _“Of course, Mr. Geordie, sir,” Came young Ian’s reply._
> 
> **Between 6:00 AM and 6:45 AM** : You can find him riding his bright orange bike around the neighborhoods and subdivisions of Boone, N.C., delivering papers to those on the street. He passes a few dog-walkers here-and-there, a couple of kids getting into their cars for school. Some old men watering their plants or wives kissing their husbands as they headed for work. On the rare occasion he’d find a smiling face, he would smile back. Sometimes he’d even be offered a to-go cup of coffee or a muffin or a bottle of water. He always loved those people–the ones who didn’t see him as invisible.
> 
> **7:00 AM** : He heads for the subdivision called Simon’s Landing–the nicer of most of the subdivisions he has the pleasure of riding through–and delivers his papers to all of the houses.
> 
> **7:30 AM** : Ian, sure all his papers had been delivered, heads back for home, a 45-minute ride from his current location.

_It’s here that our story changes, on the dawn of the twentieth of December 1982_. 

The temperature had dropped way below freezing earlier in the morning, and by the time Ian reached the last house of Simon’s Landing, his hands were so numb he could barely grab the last paper out of the bag. He had paused in front of the house: a homely, brick two-story with a white fence and a two-car garage. The front door was colored a pale yellow–almost white, but not quite. The owner of the house always kept some kind of decoration hanging near the top of it. Being the time of year that it was, an evergreen wreath with a bright red bow hung pristinely from its hook.

Ian had always thought it was a larger family living there, given the two-car garage and amount of rooms it had. But he would find out otherwise today.

He was rummaging through the bag on his back, muttering brief profanities at himself as he did so. Before he could do much else, however, a voice called to him from a distance, “Are you alright out there?”

The first thing he noticed that the inflection of the voice wasn’t that of a normal Boone resident, nor was it the Scottish burr that he was used to at home. It was _English_.

“Hello?” The voice called once more, causing Ian to turn his head towards the sunshine-yellow front door. A woman stood in the doorframe, the dark circles under her eyes just as prominent from Ian’s position as they’d be up close. “You must be freezing out there.”

The boy nodded, teeth chattering slightly. “Aye, mum. Very.”

The woman sighed outwardly, stepping aside as she pulled the door backward towards herself, opening the house for his view. “Come inside, then. I’ll make you some hot chocolate to warm you up.”

Not passing up an offer of a free beverage, Ian abandoned his bike and strode carefully into the woman’s house. The thought of being in a stranger’s home hadn’t even crossed his mind, especially when he sat down in the large, velvet loveseat and sipped at his steaming hot chocolate. His hands seemed to thaw considerably, from not only the hot cup in his hand but the warmth of internal heating, and he thanked God quietly for this woman’s hospitality.

“Ah, thank ye, mum, for yer hospitality,” He murmured quietly, peering over his mug at the woman’s figure sat across from him on her sofa.

She waved her hand in an act of dismissal. “It’s nothing, really. I’m sure you were freezing. This is the last house on your route, isn’t it?”

Ian nodded. “Aye, it is, mum.”

“Please, there’s no need for formalities. I’m Claire Beauchamp. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you…?”

“Oh, I’m–um. I’m Ian Murray, mum. I mean, Claire.”

Claire smiled, a set of bright white teeth flashing through her rosy pink lips. Despite the dark circles under her eyes and the permanent worry-lines creased into her forehead, she looked exceptionally welcoming and kind. Ian seemed to relax in his seat as he met her honey-hued eyes.

“Do you go to school, Ian?” She inquired, tilting her head a bit to the side. “I would assume you’d be there by now, if you were.”

“I’m homeschooled by my mother.”

She pursed her lips momentarily, but stretched them back out as she resumed her close-lipped smile. “How lovely.”

Ian nodded, but said nothing. They sat in silence, Ian more awkwardly so than Claire. He started glancing about the living room and noticed that there was nothing more than necessities housed there: a television on a stand, loads of medical textbooks and encyclopedias inside the shelves. A sofa, a loveseat and a coffee table where a radio and a vase of flowers sat. Customary things, but nothing personal–no photos of loved ones, no family heirlooms. Quite unlike the walls of his own home, lined with photographs and books and paintings galore. The room about him seemed plain to him. _Almost_.

The pair sat in the living room a while longer. After a short while, Claire was able to thaw Ian’s nervous outer-shell and got him to open up. He told her of what he wanted to do when he got older–help his father and uncle with the family business–and the places he’d like to travel someday. She revealed a few things about herself that Ian found rather interesting: she grew up with an archaeologist as an uncle, of whom had taken her all over the world on his expeditions. She ended up coming to school in North Carolina after he had settled here, studying biology at Duke University before attending medical school and eventually becoming a medical student. Upon finishing her schooling and starting her residency, Claire started studying for her PhD at ASU, and found more permanent housing in Simon’s Landing.

“Why study here, though? Instead of going back to England?” Ian inquired, his cup empty and sitting on the coffee table.

Claire shrugged. “My uncle always loved Boone–he had called it once the Scotland away from Scotland,” She chuckled softly and Ian did the same. Placing a piece of her hair behind her ear, she sighed, “I don’t know, I guess I just feel connected to him, here. He died a couple of years ago while I was in still school.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, mum,” he told her softly.

“Such as life,” She said, smiling sweetly. The boy smiled back, and before she could say much of anything else, there was a knock at the door.

Claire, excusing herself for a brief moment, opened the door to reveal a stranger on the other side.

Or, at least, he was a stranger to Claire.

“Sorry to bother ye, but I believe my nephew is in there.”

Ian, hearing his uncle’s voice, shot up instantly. His dark brown eyes met the other man’s ice-blue stare, and shifted awkwardly from one foot to another.

“Oh, of course. Come in,” She stepped to the side. “It’s cold out.”

The large man nodded, thanking her as he took a step inside. It hadn’t snowed yet, but it was about to: the sky was covered in a thick blanket of grey clouds.

Ian took a step towards his uncle, holding his hands to explain, but Jamie just held up a hand.

“Dinna worry yerself, man. Yer parents just sent me to pick ye up. Assumed ye’d just gotten tired and stayed at the shop fer a bit until it got warmer out.”

Ian nodded, but said nothing.

Jamie turned to Claire, of whom was standing by the door with arms crossed one over the other, eyebrows raised in interest. He turned back to his nephew, raising his eyebrows expectantly and nodding towards the door.

Nodding once more, Ian trudged towards the door, head low. He looked to Claire, smiling smally, “Thank ye, again, Miss Claire.”

“You’re welcome, really. Anytime.” She smiled kindly, glancing from Ian to his uncle.

Jamie started to follow the boy out the door but paused, murmuring, “Put yer bike in the truck. I’ll be wi’ ye in a moment.”

Affirming he heard what his uncle said, Ian turned towards the street and walked in the direction of his bike. Jamie, on the other hand, turned to Claire and smiled.

“I ken that he’s thanked you already, but thank ye, again. From both me and his parents. We were a bit worrit when he didn’t show up at the house around the usual time.”

“It’s not a problem, really. It’s nice to have company every once in awhile,” She smiled widely.

Jamie nodded slowly before smiling at her. “I’m Jamie Fraser, by the way. Sorry I didna introduce myself earlier.” He extended his hand in her direction, of which she took.

“Claire. Claire Beauchamp.”

Flipping their locked hands so hers was on top, he smiled broadly and kissed the back of it in a very gallant manner, murmuring, “I’ll be seein’ ye, Miss Beauchamp.”

Observing this exchange from the car window, Ian smiled broadly to his reflection in the side mirror. Despite the fact that Ian Murray had not been on time that morning, everything came out perfect.


	2. two

_december 27th, 1982_

 

Ian woke up the morning of December 27th around 4:45 AM, feeling rather warm – but not warmer than usual.

> **5:00 AM** : _He stepped into the shower, quickly rubbed a bar of soap over his body before shampooing his hair and jumping right back out again._
> 
> **5:15 AM** : _After changing into his clothes, he ran down the staircase, brushing his teeth. He reached for a banana on the counter._
> 
> **5:18 AM** : _His uncle rounded the corner from the study, looking intently at his nephew as he attempted to brush his teeth and eat at the same time._
> 
> _“What in God’s name are ye doing, man?” He implored of his nephew, setting his newspaper down on the counter and leaning against it, eyebrows raised._
> 
> _Ian looked from his toothbrush in one hand to the banana in the other, thinking of a proper way of explaining himself. He shrugged slightly, with a sheepish grin on his face. “Killin’ two birds with one stone?”_
> 
> _Jamie shook his head, a smile gracing his lips._
> 
> **5:23 AM** : _Ian bid farewell to his uncle, and went to head out the door. Jamie stopped him, however, as soon as he hit the doorframe._
> 
> _“Ian, the back of yer shirt is drenched.”_
> 
> _“Well,” Ian replied, “I_ did _take a shower, Uncle.”_
> 
> _“I ken that, ye dolt. I mean that ye’re_ sweating _, wi’ it bein’ freezing outside.” Jamie shook his head, then gestured his hand towards himself. “Come ‘ere, then.”_
> 
> _Ian, rolling his eyes slightly, and, shoulders slouched, walked towards his uncle. Jamie put the back of his hand against his nephew’s forehead, pursed his lips tightly before instructing the young lad to cough._
> 
> _The boy did as he was bid, and a bunch of mucus seemed to jump from his lungs to his throat. The sound was thick and disgusting, and Jamie rose his eyebrows at his nephew._
> 
> _“Looks like ye’re not going to work today,  after all,” Jamie smiled, then pushed his nephew lightly on the shoulder towards the staircase. “Back to bed wi’ ye. Make sure you tell yer mother I told you to stay here.”_
> 
> _“Alright,” Ian agreed. He took a step forward but then turned back to his uncle, eyes wide. “What about Geordie?”_
> 
> _“Dinna worry about that, lad,” Jamie smiled. “I’ll take care o’ yer route for you.”_
> 
> _Nodding, Ian turned back to the staircase and took them two at a time, a wide smile on his lips as he went back to his room. Little did his uncle know that Ian was not sick, and just had taken a very hot shower._
> 
> And thank God for allergies _, he thought to himself as he curled up in his bed, ecstatic at the idea of being able to sleep in._

 

 

 

 

Despite several attempts to get himself on his nephew’s bike, Jamie instead opted to drive his truck around the suburban neighborhoods of Boone, throwing the papers out the window as he passed. He was able to finish the route in just under an hour, which was much different than poor Ian Murray Jr.’s two-and-a-half-hour biking escapade.

When he pulled into the small subdivision of Simon’s Landing, his heart started to pound. Not from nerves–of _course_ not from nerves–but just from the sheer knowledge of her presence.

He had tried, multiple times, to pick up the phone book and search for her phone number, skimming the yellow pages for _Beauchamp, C_. And amongst the Lambert’s and John’s and Harrison’s, his finger had hit that inked letter _C_ –with the eight digits following–and he would slam the book closed. Both of the Ian’s had chastised him multiple times over the matter, and even his sister joined in the proceedings once or twice.

“Ask her on a date, ye _clotheid_ ,” she frustratedly muttered to her brother over breakfast one morning. “If _you_ dinna want to do it, then _I_ will do it for ye.”

The opportunity had presented itself to him this morning with Ian’s sickness. Whether this was a sign from God or not, he didn’t know. But he took it graciously, and asked Him not to let him screw this up.

With his nerves clogging up his throat, to the point he was almost suffocating, he walked up the few steps to her porch and approached her door. He rang the doorbell once and heard the shrill ring of it echo through the house. Rocking back and forth on his heels, he shoved his hands in his pockets, the newspaper squeezed between his arm and his side.

Every second that passed seemed like years. Each new breath that he exhaled came out in faster waves as his heartbeat increased, the cold morning air causing them to form into mist in front of him. Getting slightly impatient–and worried that she wasn’t inside–he looked through one of the front windows of her porch in search of her.

As soon as he did this, however, the door swung open and there she was.

“Good morning, Mr. Fraser,” she greeted, a warm smile on her face as she pulled her cardigan closer to her body against the brisk morning chill. She looked from his face to the newspaper in his arm and nodded at it. “Is that for me?”

Flustered, he fumbled with the paper in his hands and thrust it forward, unattractively and clumsily, at her face. “Aye, I–uh–yes, this is yours.”

The smile on her face grew ever wider, showing all of her beautiful white teeth. She stepped to the side and opened the door just a _tad_ wider, inviting him to come inside. Still discomfited, he nodded once and came inside, allowing the warmth to envelope him in a blanket of comfort.

“Would you like some coffee? I just made a pot,” she inquired, gesturing to the kitchen where the coffee pot sat in his view. Shaking his head, but thanking her nonetheless, he watched her walk out of the entryway and into the brightly colored room. A moment passed before she turned towards him, a sheepish smile on her lips as she filled up a mug. “You _can_ come in here, you know.”

He took a step, then realized that his boots were wet from the snow outside. Grimacing, he called to her as he went to place his shoes outside, “I’ll take my shoes off outside, so as to not ruin your floors.”

She waved a hand in dismissal, but he didn’t see it. He popped off his boots in front of the door and stepped back inside in his woolen socks.

“So, where’s your nephew this morning?” Claire asked as he stepped into the kitchen, eyebrows raised as she took a sip of her coffee. He committed her drink of choice to memory: Black, no sugar, no creamer.

“He’s at home sick. He woke up wi’ a fever this morning.”

A concerned look crossed over her face as she set down her cup and crossed her arms over her chest. “What were his other symptoms?”

Jamie shrugged, “I’m no’ one to ken exactly what to look for when someone is sick, but he was sweatin’ a lot; his whole shirt was soaked through. His head was hot to the touch and when I asked him to cough, ‘twas the most disgusting thing I’d ever heard.”

Her fingers tapped on her arm in thought before she asked, “Had he taken a shower this morning?”

“Aye,” He replied, eyebrows shrunk together in confusion as she chuckled lightly. “Why?”

She pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. The look that she was giving him made him nervous, which caused him to voice a nervous, “What?”

“Well…” She tried to suppress laughter as she took another sip of her coffee. “I do believe that you have been played a fool.”

Jamie, flabbergasted, left out a huff of agitation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Since I haven’t seen him, I can’t say that I’m entirely right, but I _do_ believe that he has nothing more than a small case of _allergies_.”

Getting rather annoyed, he crossed his arms and stared at her crossly. “And how do you know that, just from the wee bit of information that I’ve shared wi’ ye?”

She was trying so hard to keep her smile contained from behind the rim of her coffee cup. “Because I’m a _pediatrician_ , Mr. Fraser. It’s my _job_.”

If he thought he was embarrassed before, he was downright mortified. His face flushed and words seemed to die in his throat; not a single one of the apologies he could think of were enough to excuse his error. There was nothing he wanted to do more than to kneel at her feet and beg for mercy.

As much as he thought she was mad at him, though, he could see that it was much the opposite. She seemed amused at his tongue-tied state, _Damn her_ , and the smirk on her lips proved it.

Scrambling to find a way to make it up to her, he stammered out, “Can I take ye to dinner?”

A cringe formed on his face as he watched her eyes widen then return to their normal size, but the smile didn’t leave her face. Before she could answer, he went to explain himself, the words spilling out of his mouth in a long stream of word vomit. “I mean, not that I like ye more now that I know that ye’re a doctor. My opinion has _really_ been the same since I first met ye, it’s just that–”

“I would _love_ to go to dinner,” she interrupted, setting her coffee mug down on the counter. She turned from his shocked face to her refrigerator, where a small calendar rested to mark her schedule. He watched as she pulled a marker from the holder and went to find a day she had off, her slender finger pointing to the 31st. “What are your plans for New Year’s Eve, Mr. Fraser?”

Shifting from foot to foot, he shrugged. “Nothin’ much, I dinna think. I don’t start workin’ again until the New Year.”

“I work in the morning, but maybe we can do something that night,” she started to write his name down as Mr. Fraser but stopped short. She turned sheepishly to him and murmured, “I suppose since we know each other well enough now, we could know each other by our first names, right, Jamie?”

Jamie nodded with a smile, savoring the sound of his name on her lips. “I suppose so, _Claire_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie is nervous about his date with Claire, but Young Ian helps reassure him.

**chapter three**

_december 31st, 1982_

part one

 

By the time New Year’s Eve rolled around, Jamie Fraser had bitten his nails to the cuticle. His nerves had built up immensely over the course of four days, but they finally reached their pinnacle this morning. As he made his way downstairs, the tiniest excuse for a thumbnail between his teeth, his sister gave him a sympathetic look from across the room.

 

“Brother,” she chastised him, crossing the space between them in four long strides and pulling his hand from his mouth and holding it up between them. “You havena done this since we were bairns. What’s wrong wi’ ye?”

 

“He’s nervous, Mam!” Young Ian called from the kitchen table as he chowed down on some cereal. “He’s got a date with Auntie Claire tonight.”

 

Jenny’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline, dark eyes wide. “ _Claire_?”

 

Jamie nodded but said nothing, prompting to shoot a death glare at his nephew instead, who innocently smiled and continued eating. He walked to the fridge and grabbed the orange juice carton, twisting off the lid and taking a sip.

 

Him walking away, however, wouldn’t stop Janet Aileen Murray from prodding him even further. “Are ye bringin’ her to the party, then?”

 

“I may,” he answered hesitantly, taking another sip of orange juice. “If it all goes well.”

 

Young Ian made a Scottish noise reminiscent of a “hmph” and said, after taking yet another bite of cereal, “I’m sure it’ll go well, Uncle Jamie. She likes ye already, I ken it.”

 

In truth, everyone in the house probably knew it, too. He’d talked about her night and day ever since he’d met her, recalling the events of their first ‘date’ over and over as if it were a passage from the Bible. Young Ian--as well as the other children--had started to tauntingly call her _Auntie Claire_ , since, in their eyes, they were bound to end up together. Every time one of them said it, the tips of Jamie’s ears turned red.

 

The color rose to his cheeks now and Ian smiled triumphantly, standing up to refill his bowl. Jenny crossed her arms over her chest and raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You _are_ bringing her here, right, Jamie?”

 

Jamie turned over his shoulder to look at his sister. Despite the raised eyebrow, he could see in her eyes the pleading look that resided there. It had been years since he’d last been in any relationship with a woman, casual or not, and he knew that she worried for him. Nearing on thirty-five, James Fraser was nearing middle age with nothing more to his name than a few thousand dollars and an old Ford pickup truck. She wanted him happy, with a family, and he knew it. It was all a matter of finding the right person to start that with--and, God willing, Claire Beauchamp could be that person.

 

A moment later the front door slammed closed, a distraught Janet storming into the kitchen with tear-streaked cheeks. The eighteen-year-old ran directly for her mother, of whom wrapped her in a tight embrace, the latter’s wide eyes meeting Jamie’s from across the room.

 

“What’s the matter, _mo chride_?” Jenny soothed, brushing her daughter’s hair out from in front of her face.

 

The girl sniffled, arms wrapped tightly around her mother’s neck. “A-Alan broke up with me, Mam.”

 

“Just now?” Jamie eyed his sister warily before making his way to the door, opening it and sticking his head outside. No sign of the lad besides that of fresh tire tracks in the mud, showing evidence of his eventual departure. Grunting and shutting the door behind him, he made his way back to the kitchen before commenting, “He could’ve at least driven on the road.”

 

Jenny gave her brother a look of disapproval, rubbing soothing hands up and down her daughter’s back.

 

“Geez, Jan, take a chill pill,” Ian chided, a once-silent voyeur to the events that had just taken place. “He wasna worth yer time! He was a barf bag, anyway.”

 

“Ian James Murray!” His mother guffawed.

 

Ian raised his hands in defense. “It’s only the truth, Mam, and she kens it.”

 

Janet sniffled again, nodding against her mother’s chest. “Aye, he’s right. He _is_ a barf bag, a legitimate _douchebag_.”

 

“Do ye need me to go find him?” Jamie offered, turning to the door. “I can give him a piece of my mind.”

 

“No,” she replied, sitting up out of her mother’s embrace. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at her uncle. “I appreciate it, though, Uncle Jamie.”

 

Nodding, Jenny wrapped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and led her upstairs to rest. Jamie watched them go, then turned to his nephew, who was currently digging into his third bowl of cereal. “God, man, do you ever stop eatin’?”

 

Ian smiled, mouth full of Cheerios. “Naw, Uncle. And I dinna stop talkin’, either.”

 

“Aye,” Jamie sighed, trying as hard as he could to keep from laughing. “That ye don’t.”

 

Grabbing an apple from the counter behind him, Jamie sat down across from his nephew. Instead of eating it, however, he started to pick at it nervously, making crescent-shaped indentations in the ripe red skin. Ian noticed this fidgety behavior and put his spoon down. “Why are ye so nervous still, Uncle Jamie?”

 

Looking up from his essentially destroyed apple, Jamie smiled shyly. “I just… I havena been on a date in a long time. I dinna ken exactly what I need to do, seein’ as the times ‘ave changed and such.”

 

“Well,” Ian smiled broadly, leaning onto his elbows as if he was about to reveal the location of the Holy Grail. “You _definitely_ havta kiss her.”

 

“ _Kiss_ her? I barely even _know_ her!”

 

Ian rolled his eyes. “God, Uncle, sometimes I forget how old ye are. It doesna matter: first dates always end with some kind of kissing. Sometimes more than that, if ye catch my drift.” He wiggled his eyebrows promiscuously.

 

“I dinna need--”

 

“Ye’re takin’ her to dinner, aye?” After a sigh and an eyeroll, Jamie nodded. “Good, then ye have a good startin’ point. Ask her a lot about herself: her interests, what she wants to do in life, blah blah blah. Eventually tell her a bit about yerself, but keep it a bit mysterious. Make her ask you about it.”

 

Jamie leaned forward, a bit intrigued to hear what else his nephew has to say. “What about when the dinner ends?”

 

“Take ‘er home, if she wishes to go. But I dinna think Auntie Claire will want to leave yer side, Uncle.”

 

“So… what do I do if she doesna want to leave?”

 

Ian said nothing, but raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his water. Realizing the implication of this, Jamie asked, in a shocked tone, “Bring her _here_?”

 

“Get. Her. _Drunk._ If both of ye get drunk, even better. People are more emotional when they’re drunk.”

 

Jamie cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? And how would you know that?”

 

Ian’s face turned red. “No reason,” he muttered as he quickly put his bowl away and ran out of the kitchen before further questions were asked.

  


* * *

 

 

By the time he had finished getting ready, it was half-past seven. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d be late to pick Claire up, and he knew it; but he couldn’t help staring at himself in the mirror, checking his shirt for wrinkles and the coat of his suit for torn seams. He hadn’t worn this thing in years, but since the place Jenny had chosen was fancier than most, he had to play up his appearance. His hair, usually a riotous cloud of red around his head, had been smoothed back with a bit of Young Ian’s hair gel. Janet insisted Jamie wear a blue tie-- _It will match yer eyes, Uncle!_ \--and his sister begged him to wear Ian’s dress shoes instead of his typical work boots. To complete the essential “first date” look, Jenny had brought Jamie a bouquet of flowers to bring Claire when he picked her up--a bouquet of lavender roses--which he currently held in his hands. Nervously, he turned back from the door to his family, of whom were in the kitchen preparing for their own New Year’s festivities.

 

“How do I look?” Jamie asked for the fourth time that evening, adjusting his tie.

 

“Just as handsome as you did the first time ye asked an hour ago,” Jenny replied, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Hurry up, man, dinna make her wait any longer!”

 

As Jamie rushed out of the door, young Ian shouted from the front steps, “Dinna forget to tell Auntie Claire I said hello!”

  


He hadn’t been this nervous since… the last time he’d shown up on Claire Beauchamp’s doorstep. He tapped his fingers against his leg impatiently after ringing the doorbell, the loud ringing of the bell making his heart race. Hearing her voice, albeit muffled through the wood, as she yelled _Almost ready!_ made his hands shake and his pulse quicken. If she didn’t open the door soon, he swore he would die of a heart attack on her doorstep.

 

Not even a second later, the door unlocked and opened, revealing a goddess in red. She’d done her hair up, the loveliest waves of chestnut and mahogany cascading across her shoulders, brushing the tops of her breasts. He thought he’d died of a heart attack, and by God, he was right.

 

“Hello,” she murmured, red lips turning upwards into a small, nervous smile. The apples of her cheeks flushed red as she noticed his wandering eyes, the shade almost dark enough to match her dress. She pointed to the flowers in his hand. “Are those for me?”

 

Words failed him, for he just nodded and thrust the bouquet forward. Smiling, she took them from his outstretched hand, fingers touching slightly as she did so. Gesturing inside, she asked, “Would you like to come in for a moment?” He nodded and followed her mindlessly into the house.

 

“How was your drive?” She asked as she rummaged through her kitchen cabinets in search of a vase.

 

“Alright,” he murmured, breathless. He tried so hard not to watch her as she bent over, looking underneath her sink for the “blasted thing”. Smiling at her turn of phrase, he started going through cabinets as well, eventually finding a vase. He held it out to her, “Is this what ye were lookin’ for?”

 

Standing upright, she shook her head, a smile forming on her lips. “Good Lord, you know my house better than I do!” She reached for the vase and began to fill it up with water. “Thank you for the flowers, they’re lovely.”

 

“My sister got them,” he admitted. “I dinna ken a thing about flowers.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Is that so? Well, I can teach you a few things, then.” At his strange expression, she laughed. “I do some botany on the side, for fun. I like finding out what plants can be used to create certain medicines, or which ones shouldn’t be used for anything at all. Who knows, we could find the cure to polio or measles in some foreign plant someday.”

 

He nodded, smiling. If anyone were to find the cure to some crazy, foreign disease, it would be Claire Beauchamp.

 

After putting the flowers in their vase, she turned to him, hand outstretched. “Ready to go?”

 

Taking her hand in his, he replied softly, “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  


* * *

 

 

The car ride to the restaurant was no longer than half an hour, but it felt like a day. He could sit and talk to Claire for hours--hell, he could talk to her every second for the rest of his _life_ \--and feel content. She was such an animated storyteller, however reserved she seemed to be, and could make him laugh harder than anyone he’s ever known. Everything she had to say was meaningful and poignant, and it all resonated within his heart, as if it’d been frozen for centuries until she’d come into his life, slowly thawing it with her warmth. As she was halfway through a story about her childhood dog, a Newfoundland named Smokey, and how he got into _everything_ , he couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to spend the rest of his life with her. After that thought, however, he realized how lovesick he sounded to himself. Talk about _puppy love_.

 

As they pulled up to the restaurant, Claire let out a gasp of excitement. “How did you know?”

 

“How did I know _what_?” Jamie asked, confused.

 

She shook her head. “This is my _favorite_ restaurant! You truly didn’t know?”

 

 _Jenny Murray, I owe ye my_ life _,_ he thought to himself. “I did not. But I know, now.”

 

Smiling, she got out of the truck and looked at the building in awe. The front was still decorated for Christmas, with fairy lights strewn all about the outdoor seating area and the outline of the front door. Italian music drifted from the speakers above, enveloping them in a comforting warmth that only Italian restaurants can offer. Extending his hand to her, he murmured, “Let’s eat.”

 

Thankfully, Jenny had made them a reservation--under _Fraser_ \--so that they didn’t have to wait for an hour like the other last-minute patrons. As they were being led to the table, Claire in front of him, he couldn’t help but admire the beautiful form of her body, all the curves and soft edges. She was a radiant woman, and definitely the most beautiful he’d ever seen. She turned to look at him, coyly smiling when their eyes met.

 

Sitting down at the table, the waiter got their drinks--she ordered merlot, which he also decided to try--and then they were alone. The tone from the car had extended into the course of the dinner. Only with the few interruptions of the waiter, Jamie was enthralled completely in her. Every word that left her mouth made him fall for her more and more, until all he felt was this overwhelming ache to be with her always.

 

“So, what about you?” She asked, leaning forward onto her elbows. “I’ve been talking about myself all night but I know naught about you.”

 

He mimicked her movements, smiling in what he hoped was a flirtatious way. “What is it you want to know?”

 

“Well, you can start by telling me about your family.”

 

“How many generations back?” He joked.

 

She chuckled, “Your parents will do.”

 

He then regaled her in the tale of how his parents met, eventually marrying despite the wishes of both of their families. _Very Romeo and Juliet,_ Claire had commented. He then told her about Jenny and her family--how he was fond of his nieces and nephews, and his brother in law.

 

“Ian seems to be a bit of a handful,” she commented as he started talking about the young boy. “But he’s a good lad.”

 

“Aye,” Jamie agreed. “When he does what he’s told, he’s braw.”

 

They laughed, sipping their wine and nibbling on the complementary bread between them. Every so often, she’d look up at him from behind the rim of her glass, or under her eyelashes, head turned coquettishly to the side, and he saw what lie in the darkness of her irises. Despite what he’d previously thought, she wanted him. Having it been the amount of wine she’d drunk--she’d definitely had way more than he had, with the bottle having been emptied already--or the warmness of the atmosphere, he didn’t care. He couldn’t pass up an opportunity such as this.

 

By the time they’d eaten and he’d paid--despite her multiple attempts to pay for her own meal--it was ten o’clock. The party at Lallybroch had only just started; taking note of this, he turned to Claire as they walked out of the restaurant.

 

“What’re ye doin’ tomorrow, Sassenach?” He asked casually, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders as they walked out of the doors.

 

She pursed her lips in thought. “I’m not on call, if _that’s_ what you’re asking. Why?”

 

“Well,” he started nervously, wringing his hands. “It’s only that my family is havin’ a bit of a get-together tonight and they have been beggin’ me ta bring ye to the house… would ye mind comin’ wi’ me?”

 

Turning to him, she murmured jokingly,  “Are you asking me to meet your family? And right after the first date?”

 

He smiled at her teasing tone, nerves easing slightly. “Only if ye want to.”

 

Instead of answering, she smiled slyly and rested her hand on his chest. “You move rather fast, James Fraser.”

 

“Is that a bad thing?” He asked, out of breath due to the closeness of her.

 

“No,” she said sincerely. “Not at all.”

 

Before he could register what was happening, she was kissing him. Cliche as it was, all if his stars seemed to have aligned as soon as her lips met his--her hands wrapped around his neck and tugging at the long hairs at the nape. His hands on her waist, fitting there as if they were made for that purpose alone. When she pulled away for breath he opened his eyes, pupils dilated and lips swollen. Her lips were just as swollen, red lipstick smeared a bit at the corners. He rubbed at it a little, in a vain attempt to clean it up a bit. She smiled against his fingers, kissing the tips.

 

“So, is that a yes, then?” He asked, brushing a stray hair back from her forehead.

 

Grabbing his hand and squeezing, she nodded. “Let’s go.”

  
  



End file.
